


A Dance

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between The Teddy Bear and A Sparring Session. John Steed and Emma Peel go out dancing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dance

“Do you like dancing?” Steed asked, adjusting his cuffs. “I know a night club near here.”

Emma looked at him carefully in the half-light of the city street. A certain calm, coiled grace characterized the way that he walked, but he was economic too. Not a movement wasted. He reminded her a little of a large cat – seemingly lazy, a little languid, but with the capacity to transform at a moment’s notice into a powerful, even terrifying presence. Dancing with him could prove interesting.

“Certainly,” she said, taking the arm he offered..

They walked a few streets down and stopped at the sign of a small jazz club.

“I know the singer here,” said Steed, holding the door open for her. “We’ll be sure to get a good table.”

Down a dark staircase and in through another glass door, they entered an open, slightly smoky club. Couples danced on an open floor to the rather high-pitched tones of a blond singer and jazz band. They were immediately shown to a table. 

Steed had a way of commanding attention – a snap of his fingers brought a waiter and a bottle of champagne. Emma sipped – a good vintage – and looked at the man across from her. Even after nearly a month of acquaintance, he still represented something of an enigma. He had only just returned to London after an extended trip in the Caribbean. The sun and sand agreed with him, for although he only had the barest bit of tan, he looked healthier than when she’d seen him in the week before he left. A small shadow of a bruise still shone around his right eye, though, and Emma was beginning to wonder just how relaxing his sojourn had actually been.

“You know who you remind me of?” she said, setting her glass down.

“The Prince of Wales.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“I look nothing like Leslie Howard.”

“It was also a book, you know.”

“A series, actually. So I remind you of an 18th Century fop?”

“You remind me of a man who concealed his true nature from the world to make his enemies underestimate him.”

“And what was his near-undoing? A woman.”

“It happens to all the great heroes. Samson, David, King Arthur.”

“A lesson in the dangers of women.”

“A lesson in the frailties of men.”

Steed nodded his head. "So you think I'm concealing my true nature?"

"I'm not certain. Yet."

Their eyes met across the table. His mouth pulled into a half-smile. She recalled their first kiss, only a few days before, reliving the feel of the soft, supple lips and darting, insistent tongue.

“We’d better dance,” she said, rising.

“I suppose we’d better.”

Dancing, Emma had discovered, could be incredibly embarrassing. She had danced with any number of her father’s colleagues and been trod on enough to give her flat feet. Her height sometimes encumbered her shorter partners. But she should have known that dancing with John Steed would be unlike anything she’d experienced before.

It was effortless. When he moved, she moved with him. He did not lead her; they danced together, his guidance nearly imperceptible. His arm about her waist, hers resting on his shoulder – he had broad shoulders, she could feel the definition beneath the soft cloth of his suit. She was certain he could feel her heart beating.

They moved too well together. His hand was too right in hers. The electrical tension between them was far too much. Looking up at him, there was no smile on his face. Just a look of impossible intensity in his grey eyes. 

Wary of obvious charms, wary of masculine prerogative, wary of any infringement on her sovereign right to make her own decisions, Emma maintained a cool, even aloof exterior with even the most charming of men. But there was no avoiding the sensations that he created in her; the invisible lead that connected them and that grew stronger every time they met. She caught herself in the act of thinking what those immaculate clothes concealed, imagining the hard definition of muscle beneath his shirt, the long sturdy legs, the …

Emma cleared her throat and shook the thought from her head. It was against every rule she had. She only made exceptions for certain types of men – brilliant ones, intellectual ones, ones that could meet her on every level, challenge her, exceed her. She approached these things logically – her marriage had been the logical one, like everything else in her life. John Steed was not a logical choice. He was dangerous, unpredictable, perhaps even unreliable. To have even a casual relationship with such a man was illogical. And yet she so enjoyed being pressed against him, being in his arms, talking with him, dining with him. She so enjoyed the games they were playing, both aware that they were games. She only wondered when the games would end.

They danced until their feet were sore, then sat again, drank again, danced again. Somehow – Emma was not certain how - they consumed another two bottles of champagne. The world became a little brighter, the tight tension between them that much more palpable. Why should she resist what was so natural? She wasn’t in love with him, after all. There was no danger in a casual romance that might last a few weeks. Didn’t she see the desire in his eyes, the animal attraction in his body? He was companionable, genial, relaxed in mind and spirit. The sort who would demand nothing from her, and take only what she offered. What safer prospect for her way of life than a man who could not be tied down, and didn’t want to be? Perfect, really.

Emma wasn’t entirely certain when they made it back onto the street. She seemed to be having a little difficulty climbing into the back of a cab. Steed also moved a bit unsteadily, or so it seemed to her; it took him several minutes to count out the correct change for the cab driver in front of her building. She was fully in command of herself when she entered the building, however. He walked her to her door, then paused while she fumbled with her keys, hanging back in the corridor, his hands in his pockets.

“Are you all right?” he asked. 

“Perfectly.”

She turned to him. Handsome. He was very very handsome. She grabbed the knot of his tie and pulled him in close. He smelled of sandalwood cologne and a sweet, intoxicating something-else she couldn’t place. He tasted of champagne.

She put her fingers in his hair and opened her mouth, an invitation he took, that eager tongue entering her, warring with her. Challenging her. She had a vision of inviting him in, of playing music on the phonograph, drinking more brandy or champagne on the sofa, of his mouth on her throat and hands opening her dress, of stripping off those fine Savile Row threads. Rules and logic were quickly vanishing.

She traced the shape of his ear with the tip of her finger and felt rather than heard a tiny growl. He broke the kiss to taste the hollow of her jaw, and then returned to her mouth, claiming without aggression. His hand remained on her waist, holding them apart.

The kiss broke and Emma leaned back, pressed against the door. She looked up at him. His eyes were dark and breathing tight, her lipstick had colored his mouth. She opened her mouth to speak.

“You’d better go in,” he said, voice just a little hoarse. “Get a good night’s sleep. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Understanding cut through the fuzziness of her brain. She nodded.

“Good night, Steed,” she said.

He leaned down and kissed her again. His fingers gently wound into her hair before releasing her.

“Good night, Mrs. Peel.”

It took some effort for her to get ready for bed, but she managed it, falling in between the sheets with face washed and teeth brushed. She closed her eyes, hugging her pillow. He was right. It would have been a mistake. A serious error. Too unpredictable. Too unreliable. But she would still see him again. She rolled over. She wondered if he would ever call her Emma.


End file.
